Hey peeps! You reviews have been awesome and really helpful. I was maybe thinking of, once this is done, writing a sequel. It would contain a wedding, Harry Watson, Irene Adler and the Hound of Baskervilles! Hopefully it would have more of the case than my stories so far. What are your thoughts? Review and tell me! AOR
Sherlock was allowed back on the case the following day. He, Lestrade and John waited outside the room where the post-mortem took place. The detective was restless, pacing back and forth and generally getting under the DI and the good doctor's nerves.
"Dammit Sherlock!" shouted Lestrade half an hour into the wait. "If you can't stop walking around, at least go and get us some coffee."
Sherlock processed this information, nodded and scampered down the hall. He returned sometime later with a latte for Gabriel, a de-caff the way John liked it and a double expresso for himself. They sat in silence, sipping out of the flimsy plastic cups. The apprehension was so thick you could cut it with a knife.
Several hours later, it was over. Lestrade and Sherlock were pouring over the results when a tap was felt the consulting detective on the shoulder. He whizzed around so fast he almost hit Anderson in the face.
"What do you want?" he barked.
Anderson seemed to squirm under the force of his words.
"Err…Sherlock…I need to talk to you. In private."
Sherlock was taken aback and cocked his head slightly to one side.
"Can John come? He will keep this problem secret. And I may need a second opinion."
"When do you need a second opinion?" asked the doctor in question. Sherlock waved his hand slightly and muttered,
"Trivial matters."
"Ok, fine. But he must promise not to tell anyone or post it on his blog."
"Scouts Honour." John held three fingers over his heart. Anderson seemed to take this as an acceptable answer and led them into the now deserted operating room.
"Sherlock how is lycanthropy spread?" he rubbed his shoulder and refused to look at his sworn enemy.
"By contact, usually resulting in open wounds. Why?"
Anderson paled, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish but no sound came out. The fear in his eyes was monumental.
"No… no… no… no…" he sobbed "I can't be… no…"
"What's wrong? Mike?"
"He made me… one of them."
"One of what?"
The forensic scientist was silent. He ran his hands through his hair.
"Werewolf." Anderson's voice seemed to be caught in his throat. Sherlock grinned like the Cheshire Cat.
"Oh no Anderson, you misunderstand. Lycanthropy is spread via bites. Your scratches are just scratches."
"Oh… God! Yes…" he fell to the floor in a dead faint. The detective nudged Mike with his foot. He was struggling to suppress a smile. Suddenly he couldn't take it much longer. A small giggle emitted from his mouth. John bit his lip but couldn't stop himself from laughing either. Once they stopped and got their breath back, Sherlock turned to his companion,
"You weren't really in Scouts, were you?
"No." he stared at his flat-mate. An evil look was forming behind his silver eyes which both had a small spark dancing in their pupils. "But that would be cruel."
Sherlock almost pouted.
